The Introverted Poet
By Kiah
I am the true lonely poet, utterly disparaged and I know it. I surely did not write this for you, it was the only thing I ever knew to do. The words came to my addled mind, and then, flurried, the pen hit the page. It has been that way for such a time, always happened that way since an early age. Fear and apprehension kept me subdued, I never wanted my name is the daily news. Tears on the television cast shadows, true words of the work, only the poet knows. Beneath every poet's undying reservation, that to speak you must make a sound. Betwixt the meaning and the interpretation, a hope lives that the truth will be found. I am truly the only one of my kind, all alone, but only in my own mind. Wrapped inside the bliss of text, trembling at the thought of what's next. Words like soldiers, rage in my skull, till the bitter end is void and is null. Written October 29th, 2001 © on Oct 29 2001 10:53 AM PST 18 • 0 • 1
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"I am the true lonely poet,..."